


Workable Harmonies

by lynnaround



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Gen, POV Enola, Yuletide 2020, siblings not quite being sure what to do with each other, women's suffrage discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28143180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnaround/pseuds/lynnaround
Summary: Enola and Sherlock try to have a conversation over breakfast and newspapers. It's... something to be worked on.
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 5
Kudos: 58
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Workable Harmonies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coaldustcanary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coaldustcanary/gifts).



> In doing a bit of research for this fic, I learned about the Women's Social and Political Union, which used small-scale and wider-scale violence to publicize the women's suffrage issue in Britain. This felt similar to Eudoria's methods. 
> 
> The specific time setting of the movie has felt a little wobbly to me (which I think is probably on purpose; the setting feels a bit stylized) so even though the 1884 Reform Bill was part of the film's plot, I thought I could very well allude to the WSPU and their activities here, even though they weren't founded until 1903.
> 
> The bill they're discussing is the Women's Enfranchisement Bill, brought forward by MP Slack on the urging of WSPU in May 1905. The italicized portion is from the Hansard archives from 12 May 1905, and can be found [here](https://api.parliament.uk/historic-hansard/commons/1905/may/12/womens-enfranchisement-bill-1).
> 
> The personal advertisement Enola and Sherlock briefly talk about is a real one, and appeared on the first page of the Saturday, 13 May 1905 edition of the London _Daily Telegraph & Courier._

Though I hate to admit it, there are some conveniences that come with living with my older brother. Having a place to stay where I am not being overcharged and underhoused, for instance. His landlady, though she _can_ fuss, is a mostly kind woman who makes a very good breakfast. And with most breakfasts, my older brother deigns to send me the newspapers.

Obviously not all of them, but a decent enough spread that it gives me something with which to occupy myself over toast, after which I usually head out into the city to go find the rest. I can usually find any potential cases or seeming ciphers fairly quickly, after all, so it does not take long to make short work of the pages.

But I am getting ahead of myself – after both one: finding my mother and two: protecting the Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether from being murdered by his grandmother, my older brother Sherlock offered to become my guardian. To cut a long and mostly boring story short, I accepted. It _had_ been difficult establishing myself as a serious detective without having a proper address, after all, and my brother seems to look at the whole thing primarily as an interesting experiment, as far as I can tell. In any case, it keeps my other brother – Mycroft – quiet about boarding school, so all three of us can live in a workable, if not entirely contented, harmony.

Which brings me back to the newspapers. Normally, I find what I'm looking for, usually in the personal advertisements, and go on my way, either to meet with a potential client or to gather some preliminary clues. Today, however, one news story in particular had caught my eye. My mother, you see, is part of a group campaigning for the women's right to vote. She keeps the full extent of her activities from me, and to tell the truth I am not entirely sure how I feel about her involvement: while, of course, I obviously support the cause, I must admit the apparent methods... sometimes give me a little pause. It is another one of those “workable harmonies” in our family, I suppose.

_The object of the Bill was to place women electorally in precisely the same position as men now occupied. The Bill would enfranchise women of every class, married and single, working women and women of leisure. It was certainly the intention of the promoters that it should enfranchise married women, and in Committee he would be glad, if necessary, to insert words, making this quite clear..._

I was therefore distracted when Sherlock entered the room, sitting down across the table from me. If I jumped slightly, rustling the thin paper, it did not faze him. He picked up the first page of the _Daily Telegraph & Courier_ from where I had discarded it on the breakfast table, glancing where I had hastily circled one of the advertisements. It simply read “COENRAAD V. BOS has arrived in town for the season. All communications should be addressed to N. VERT, 6, Cork-street, W.”

“Bos is a pianist,” he said, and I paused, pressing my lips together, though he did not seem to notice my expression. “He's part of Das Holländische Trio. It tours Europe continually.”

“Yes. I know that,” I said, setting down the page I was reading and reaching to take back the one he held. He let me do so without resistance. I folded the page in half and set it by my elbow, more thoroughly out of Sherlock's reach. “I don't need to talk to him, just his landlord.”

I picked up the article I had been reading but then glanced up at Sherlock once more. He caught my gaze and then deliberately started buttering a piece of toast, which I suddenly found exasperating, for usually he left us to our separate breakfasts, and therefore obviously wanted to talk to me about something. There was part of me that wished he would just get on with it and leave me in peace, and the other part... well. The other part, the part that was still starry-eyed and had utmost faith in my brother, still, persistently, pricked the back of my mind, despite everything.

After a moment passed and he didn't say anything, I continued reading. The only sounds were the rustle of my page and the sound of him eating his piece of toast, the bubble and murmur of London below muffled nearly completely. A clock ticked on the wall. The log behind the grate popped. After another moment, I set down the page with a crunch.

“Did your morning appointment get canceled? Or was there something you needed?” I asked, and Sherlock looked back up at me.

“I didn't have a morning appointment,” he said. Apparently that was all he felt he needed to explain, for he paused, then nodded towards what I was reading. “May I see that?” Wordlessly, I handed him the newspaper, then reached for my cup of tea, sadly grown cold. I sipped it anyways as he scanned the page. Perhaps I could look at the time and claim I needed to leave for an appointment of my own, or perhaps I could simply say I was done with breakfast but that he could read the papers, if he liked. Perhaps I could – Sherlock made a soft _hm_ sound, and I clacked my teacup back onto the saucer a little too firmly, the tea sloshing about the porcelain. “I never have the stamina to follow politics,” he said. “What's written about it is always exceedingly boring.” He paused, and I felt a strange sense of hesitance about him then, as if he had been choosing his words very carefully. It was an odd manner for him, but I had to file that away for later, for he was still speaking, and he set the newspaper back in front of me. “Have you heard from our mother on the subject, then?”

I dropped my gaze to the table. “No,” I said, biting my lip. “No, I haven't heard from Mother lately. But I want to keep up on it. The issue, I mean. It is relevant to me, after all.” I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders, picking up my newspaper for the third time.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Sherlock said, that odd note of hesitancy still lingering in his voice.

“And what do you think about it?” I said, looking over at Sherlock like I was daring him to speak against it. If he wasn't going to come out with whatever it was he wanted to talk about, then I would steer the conversation elsewhere until he did so. “Or do you not have an opinion on the enfranchisement bill? Exceedingly boring?”

I was being abrasive, and I did know it. But there were times when Sherlock looked at me like I was a peculiar sort of creature to dissect, and other times when he spoke to me like I was made of glass. It's tiring, to be continually bouncing between the two, not knowing if you're going to get the aloof detective or the vaguely guilt-ridden brother. And it leaves me feeling confused, as well – I like knowing what to do. I like knowing whether I have to solve something or whether I can just brush on by. It can be an uneasy sort of limbo, this arrangement we have.

“I think... I can hardly be surprised it did not pass,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair and looking in the middle distance. “The Reform Bill only passed by one vote, after all, and this is quite a large leap forward from that. I have found that politicians never want to stray from the middle, in my experience. So therefore, no matter what party they are, they all seem alike to me.” He tilted his head to the side slightly, his manner of indicating a shrug.

I did not fail to notice that he hadn't really answered my question. “And what about _contents_ of the bill itself?” I wanted him to look back up at me, to catch my deliberate, unmoving look.

Sherlock did, and he held my gaze in his own, his blue eyes, like our father's not flinching away from my brown ones, the ones that matched our mother's. “It's a lofty goal. But a worthy one. I think it will be some time before it is achieved, however.”

I could not help but huff slightly, looking back at the newsprint. “Well, it's good that there's people who think differently, then.”

The table fell back into silence again. A few minutes later, the legs of his chair scraped against the floor as he stood up. “There's a letter for you, by the door,” Sherlock said. I could hear a smile in his voice. “You might like to know that it's stamped with a chrysanthemum.”

My head shot up, but he had already left the room.


End file.
